Mirrors – Who are you?
Mirror mirror on the wall
What are you and who am I?
Mirrors are odd, brute freaks. Today, when there is so much talk about not judging and all, when the truth is often a judgement and a lie an acceptance, no one talks about the mirrors. Not that anyone should talk about them, that would be pretty abnormal, but still.
What do you really want? Even when you say you want the truth, how often do you really mean it? How often do you ask for truth and not want them to say exactly what you want to hear? Why are there mirrors in every house? Stand in front of a mirror and it will tell you that you’re fat if you’re fat, and deluded if you believe otherwise. A mirror doesn’t say a word, and yet that asshole lays it all bare in front of you. It wouldn’t be a mirror if it wasn’t coated in something, and yet it coats nothing for you. It shows you what you look like and what you are, but what you see is subjective. How odd is that.
Once, years ago, I couldn’t look at myself in the mirror. It showed me how ugly I was. I avoided mirrors back then, paid no attention to myself, and even when I stood in front of one, I never really looked at myself. I always looked beyond them, at something else, at the wall behind me, at anything but me. (Was it a lack of self-confidence? It probably was.)
Then, I fell in love with myself. Mirrors were my best friends. They showed me what a super hot, sexy, Greek god I had become. I couldn’t avoid mirrors, couldn’t pass one without stopping to take a good look at myself. I liked standing in front of mirrors and admiring myself. Such perfection. I looked in the mirror and looked at myself, my face, and always got entranced by my own eyes. I tried looking into my soul through a mirror, by looking into my own eyes, but I couldn’t get past my own facial perfection. (Was it too much love for myself? It probably was.)
Now, when I look into the mirror, I don’t know what I see. I see a face, all right. I see a face that people identify me with, just like they would if I were wearing a name tag. I don’t love or hate that face, it’s too ordinary, too plain, too sad, and too expressionless. But, most of all, that face is alien to me, and the eyes are too blank. It’s not me. I don’t see myself or recognise the person I see. It is not me. How can one look at oneself with such unfamiliarity? What has happened to me, I wonder. (Then what is this? I don’t know.)
What I see in the mirror feels like someone else’s shadow to me. When you take a walk outside on a sunny afternoon, you don’t pay attention to others’ shadows, do you? Not even when those shadows are on your clothes or at your feet. You’re indifferent to them, they don’t matter, and that’s how I’m to what I see in the mirror. Sometimes I want to smash the mirrors to the floor, but do I want to see a million faces I don’t recognise on the floor? No. I just go by, see what I see, but fail to comprehend. I wonder what happened to me. Is it me or the mirror? Who do I see? There are times when I feel like I’m living on borrowed time. Who that time is borrowed from, I know not. But for every breath I take, someone loses one. Do I see myself in the mirror or do I see the person I’m sucking life from? Am I a leech sucking life from myself? Nothing is really certain, except the damned mirror. I have to wake up every morning and see someone else in my own reflection; before I can go to bed, I’ve to see someone else in my own reflection. I wonder if the reflection is really my own….